


Cloak and Dagger

by astralTYRANT



Category: RWBY
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, NSFW, Oral Sex, and tyrian's just happy to be here, handjobs, tagging this fic may have been the worst thing i've ever had to do, watts is an emotionally-repressed bastard, written for nuts and volts week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralTYRANT/pseuds/astralTYRANT
Summary: If their mission in Atlas was going to succeed, they would need to carefully balance their roles: Sabotage with assassination. Insight with violence. A cloak to conceal the dagger. They were utterly symmetric, and they completed each other in more ways than one.
Relationships: Tyrian Callows/Arthur Watts
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	Cloak and Dagger

The steady rainfall was becoming rather tiresome.

Watts adjusted his grip on the umbrella. After an hour of toting the bloody thing around the only thing he’d managed to accomplish was a moderate amount of wrist exercise. While he wasn’t about to begrudge Mantle’s artificial climate—a little inconvenience like precipitation seemed like a small price for not dying of hypothermia—it didn’t change the fact that he was _soaked_.

On the opposite side of the road a vehicle sped by, its wheels sending up a spray of water. There came a shout from the pedestrians huddled on the edge of the pavement.

At least he wasn’t the only one.

The cheerless weather had a way of capturing the authentic _charm_ of the undercity. Oil-slick puddles gleamed with iridescence from the neon street signs overhead. Small groups moved with their eyes downcast, in particular averting the gaze of a Faunus busking beneath a shoddily-erected awning of patchwork canvas. The mournful twangs of their banjo carried over the patter of the rain. They were joined by the bickering of a pair of city workers, their sleeves soiled with paint as they acid-scrubbed the graffiti from a brick wall.

Culture, they called it. It could only be considered _culture_ the same way a third-degree burn could be considered _cosmetic surgery_. Frankly, he was doing Remnant a favor by helping to remove this miserable blight of a city from the map.

As Watts continued to stroll down the sidewalk, he took note of a group of loiterers on the footsteps of a general store. One in particular—a woman hunched over the edge of the wrought-iron railing, mats of thin and unkempt hair hanging past her face as she vomited onto the cobblestone. A member of the group murmured unintelligible words of comfort as they rubbed circles into the small of her back.

“Emesis, epistaxis, onset of alopecia along the front of the scalp. Half-healed blisters on the hands. Evidence of widespread contusions on the exposed forearms. Likely occupation: collier or warehouse worker. Symptoms suggest acute poisoning from Dust exposure due to faulty protective gear or carelessness. Prognosis: terminal, without immediate medical intervention.” Watts smirked. “Such a shame there aren't any doctors around.”

Another block down the street he spotted a pair of children crouched in the shadows of an alley, an assortment of empty bottles and rubbish stockpiled at their feet. No doubt waiting to ambush passing security drones or AK-200s. As Watts strode past one of the waifs coughed into the crook of their arm.

“Rhinorrhea in both nostrils, by the looks of it,” he said. “Flushing in the face. Likely a fever. Coughing suggests post-nasal drip and inflammation of the throat. Well, I suppose it _is_ flu season. Perhaps a vaccination for the shionavirus wouldn’t go amiss while we’re here.”

His earpiece crackled to life. _“Do the diagnoses come free of charge, or is there a copay?”_ Tyrian asked.

Watts scoffed. “There are plenty of clinics they can line up at if they’re that desperate for care. I’m hardly about to volunteer my time. It would be a waste, regardless.”

 _“Oh?”_ A hint of amusement colored his inflection. _“How do you figure?”_

“If they don’t succumb to illness, then either _you_ or the _Grimm_ will kill them eventually. It all amounts to the same thing for us. Best not interfere, and let nature take its course.”

Muffled laughter filtered through the earpiece. _“Doctor knows best,”_ said Tyrian.

Watts drew to a standstill before a holographic news board, his eyes skimming over the assorted bulletins and headlines. “Find anything?” he asked.

 _“Plenty,”_ Tyrian breathed. _“You were right: the kingdom is rationing their resources. With the borders closed and the embargo in effect, the economy has slowed to a crawl. Mantle’s dependent on the capital to supplement the lack of trade, but it’s bleeding them dry. It’s drawing Grimm to the wall, like vultures to a corpse. It won’t be long before they’re picking over the bones.”_

“That’s hardly surprising. If the Atlas Customs Agency has forbidden extraregnal travel, its citizens won’t be able to flee to Argus. All of those _very_ unhappy people, packed into one convenient place.”

_“Looks like our work is being done for us.”_

“The Council merely sowed the seeds. It’s now on us to tend the fields. Speaking of which…” Watts peered at the hardlight screen. “Seems we chose a rather serendipitous moment to arrive.”

He tapped at the board and called up the video of the news anchor.

“—upcoming debate between prospective candidates Robyn Hill, Ivy Brown, and Pearl Wistier. With all four candidates vying hard for the Council seat, the debate is certain to spark controversy, with topics such as the autonomy of Mantle and its ability to allocate tax dollars independent of Atlas. Currently, public opinion is leaning toward—”

 _“I thought all of Atlas’ Council seats were up for reelection at the same time?”_ Tyrian asked.

“Under normal circumstances, they are,” Watts replied. “Unless one of the current Councilors dies, retires, or is arrested, in which case an election is held for the vacant seat.” He frowned. “But she said there were four—?”

 _“Politics breeds dissent_.” He let out an elated giggle. _“This is child’s play.”_

“Wait a moment.” Watts waved a hand to silence him (not that Tyrian was physically present to see the gesture). “Listen.”

His partner went quiet as the newscaster continued to deliver her report:

“—according to an industry insider. Due to ‘unforeseen complications,’ Dust tycoon and candidate Jacques Schnee has withdrawn his attendance, making this the third public debate that he’s opted out of. A spokesperson at Schnee Manor refused to comment on the state of the SDC, leading some to ask if a man who can’t successfully run a company is qualified to run a kingdom. Here with me now is political pundit Korro Faulkner to shed some light on recent events—”

Watts arched a brow. “Fancy yourself a politician now, Jacques? I never would have pegged you for the bureaucratic type.”

There was a soft, ominous chuckle on the other end of the earpiece. _“Ah, industrial capitalism and big government, together at last.”_ Watts could picture Tyrian’s head canted to the side, his tail curled and eyes narrowed in undisguised interest. _“You were friends in a past life, weren’t you?”_

“Acquaintances,” Watts corrected. He resumed his stroll down the block, resisting the urge to sigh as the intensity of the rain picked up. “That myopic narcissist can’t see past the next quarterly report. He’s more a purveyor of witless claptrap than he is of Dust, but at least he’s predictable. He could be of some use.”

_“It might come as a bit of a surprise when a dead man knocks on his front door.”_

“Hence ‘could.’ Let’s not gamble on needless risks unless the need arises.”

Whatever Tyrian said in response was drowned out by the thrum of an engine and the abrupt squeal of tires. The driver of the truck made a rude gesture with his finger as Watts moved along the crosswalk and took stock of the truck bed’s occupants. What a surprise, _Faunus_. Each and every one of them, their uniforms blackened with residue, hairlines matted with sweat. And unless he was mistaken, more than one sported abrasions and burns.

The SDC logo glinted on the vehicle hood.

Watts waited until his foot touched the pavement before he resumed their conversation. “He’s going to have an awfully difficult time running for office when half the city’s out for his blood.”

 _“Well, if it’s blood they want…”_ Tyrian let out a slow, fluttery breath. _“If you’d like, I could have a chat with them. One Faunus to another.”_

“Tempting, but no,” Watts drawled. “We have more clandestine means at our disposal for generating civil unrest. You’re too valuable to risk being seen.”

_“Me, valuable? I’m flattered.”_

Watts glanced up at one of the larger screens mounted to the side of a skyscraper. James Ironwood’s worn expression gazed down upon Mantle. “The general hasn’t exactly endeared himself to his citizens. Your talents are better spent on assassinating his critics—journalists, community activists, and the like. With the schism between the two cities already present, it shouldn’t be difficult to drum up panic and engender anger toward the capital and its figureheads. The heightened military presence and surveillance certainly help.”

Tyrian made a contemplative noise at the back of his throat. _“All these security measures seem rather paranoid, don’t you think?”_

Watts nearly snorted aloud. “You’re one to talk.”

_“You can’t even sneeze without something recording it. Androids and drones and cameras on every corner and you think we shouldn’t be worried?”_

“It won’t be an issue.”

An automated drone approached from the opposite end of the sidewalk. With an air of boredom, Watts tapped a pattern on the index ring, and the drone stalled in the middle of its patrol route. Sparks drifted from the metal panels as its camera short-circuited. He neatly sidestepped around it and continued on his way.

There was a thoughtful pause before Tyrian spoke again, his voice leveled out into its usual, vaguely-amused lilt: _“With all these soldiers patrolling the street, you’d think the general was expecting someone to infiltrate his kingdom. I wonder what he’s so afraid of?”_

His words devolved into a peal of manic laughter.

The rain beating against his umbrella slowed. It was all the warning Watts had before the wind changed direction, and he found himself pelted by the downpour. With a disgruntled curse under his breath Watts stepped off to the side, next to one of the heating units. Cold seldom bothered him—he was born in Atlas, after all—but the combination of wet _and_ cold wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation. It did little to remedy his waterlogged clothes, but the heat felt good against his skin.

“If there was one thing I missed about Atlas,” Watts murmured, “it was that the city is suspended _above_ the clouds. _Why_ my ancestors thought colonizing a tundra was a grand idea, I’ll never know.”

Static crackled in his ear. _“You know, there’s a very easy solution for that problem._ _Why not activate your Aura?”_

“Why not get a coat that buttons in the front?” Watts rolled his eyes. “I’m not about to squander my Aura when proper attire will suffice. Unlike you.”

As he warmed himself he looked up at the holographic screen on the wall above, curious as to the forecast.

Which was when he noticed what broadcast was being aired.

“—broke through the perimeter wall earlier this afternoon. Huntsmen from Atlas Academy were dispatched to repel the Grimm. The defense of the city was led by none other than Mantle’s very own protector, Penny Polendina. I’m happy to report there were no casualties, and the Grimm were successfully destroyed—”

He watched the footage of the slender silhouette hovering above the Sabyrs. Heat waves trailed in the wake of her thrusters as she arced overhead, discharging beams of green plasma into the Grimm below. They disintegrated on impact into fragile wisps of black vapor. With a gracefulness that belied the weight of her mechanical components, she descended onto the charred snow.

It was only when his knuckles began to ache did Watts realize how tightly he’d clenched the umbrella and handle of his bag.

He let out a long, controlled exhale and straightened. “I’m off to procure us lodging for tonight. We’ll reconvene once I’ve found suitable accommodations.”

 _“You said before we arrived that we weren’t going to work out of one location,”_ Tyrian said. _“Feeling a bit hypocritical?”_

“I’m feeling rather drenched,” muttered Watts. He moved at a brisk pace, doing his best to navigate around any potholes overflowing with runoff. “We need to stay active during the day, but unless you plan on sleeping in a gutter then _yes_ , we need somewhere to spend the night.”

 _“Now that you mention it, I did find some prime real estate behind a restaurant. It seems the previous tenants didn’t want this dumpster. Can’t imagine why.”_ A car horn blared in the background. _“Sleeping in an alley_ would _help us avoid detection…”_

“I’ve never once, in fifty-two years, slept in refuse and I’m not about to start now. We have the lien. We’re checking into a hotel.”

 _“Tetchy, tetchy. A little under the weather, aren’t we?”_ Tyrian laughed. His voice narrowed with needle-sharp shrewdness. _“Penny for your thoughts?”_

Watts grimaced at a passing storefront. “I’ll send the address to your scroll once I have the place. Stay in touch.”

_“For you? Always.”_

Mercifully, the communiqué ended.

The abrupt quiet, while momentarily jarring, was a welcome respite. It gave Watts a moment to compose himself. Unbidden, he glanced at the city suspended above him. Even with the fog created by the disparity between the artificial and ambient temperatures, he could still make out the tethers anchoring the volant landmass to the crater below. While he’d never considered himself the sentimental sort, it was hard to ignore the feeling of— _something_ in the vicinity of his chest.

He hadn’t set foot in the kingdom in nearly two decades. Time had done a thorough job deadening his soul to old grievances, but the scars hadn’t quite faded yet.

Watts remembered when Cinder had contacted him shortly after she’d uploaded the virus to Vale’s CCT. Remembered opening the decrypted attachment, and seeing the schematics for the once-dead end, long-stalled project. Remembered parsing through the data on Auratic intercision and biotechnic synthesis, and its successful application on the donor and derivative lifeform.

Remembered the way his blood chilled when he realized they’d completed Pietro’s project using _his_ research.

The very research that had resulted in the suspension of his medical license, and the faking of his own suicide.

In truth, the idea had been Hazel’s. He'd been contacted shortly after the uproar of public backlash began, in the days following the failed experimental surgery. _Your career is dead. The Council is spearheading an inquiry into prosecution on charges of malpractice. My master doesn’t want to see your talents wasted. She’d like to offer you a job._

And what an offer it had been. His initial meeting with Salem had been a jarring one, to say the least, but the opportunities she afforded him couldn’t be overstated. Unrestricted access to whatever supplies he required. Up-close encounters with myriad species of Grimm, and the ability to study them in ways that would make archotherologists _pine_ with envy.

And under the aegis of his new patron, Watts didn’t have to contend with the fretful hand-wringing of superiors who shied away at the merest hint of controversy. Progress required sacrifice.

You didn’t trailblaze without expecting a few _cuts_ along the way.

It had been Atlas’ loss and his gain. And while his current assignment held little personal motive (Watts liked to think himself above petty spite) a small part of him dearly hoped Pietro’s heart bled whenever he looked into her green eyes.

_Remember the colleague you had to bury to get your precious daughter._

Watts came to a stop. “This should do nicely.”

The bell on the door chimed as he stepped inside the building. The clerk tossed him a friendly look while he paused on the threshold to shake water from his umbrella. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Borderside Hotel. May I assist you with something?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any rooms available, would you? I’m afraid it’s rather last-minute, but I was hoping to be spared of this storm,” said Watts. As if on cue, thunder boomed outside and rattled the nearby window.

The clerk consulted the desk monitor. “You’re in luck. We have two rooms on the ground floor, and a suite available on the third floor. Interested in any of them?”

“The suite, if you’d be so kind.” Watts set his bag on the floor, mindful of its occupant.

“Of course. May I have your name?”

“Rorick, Devon.” He passed her the forged ID.

“All right. That comes to 300 lien for the night. Is that acceptable?”

“Quite.”

Watts took a moment to message the address to Tyrian as the clerk processed the transaction.

“Your ID and room key, sir.” She slid the items across the counter, which he pocketed in the folds of his still-sodden coat. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Rorick.”

Watts offered the faintest inclination of his head. “Likewise, dear.”

Three flights of stairs later and Watts unlocked the door to the suite. The room was—well, it wasn’t up to the standards of Atlas, but as he was forced to remind himself, this _wasn’t_ Atlas. It was quaint, Watts decided, in a rustic sort of way. A sitting area with a coffee table boxed in by a sofa and loveseat; a kitchenette; and a hallway that no doubt led to the bedrooms and adjoining bath. Along with all the modern amenities they could need.

He propped the umbrella by the door and discarded his coat and gloves, before turning his attention to the pinstriped bag. After a moment of silent deliberation Watts mentally shrugged, set it on the coffee table, and opened it.

The Seer slowly rose in response to its newfound freedom. Watts’ intrigued expression stared back at him from the glassy surface of its pulsating core. The bony spurs on the bell margin gently pivoted. A string of clicks, like the sound of arthritic bones grinding together, emanated from it as it floated over the table at a height that was level with his own. The red lappets sinuously twisted beneath, ribbonlike and mesmerizing in the patterns they weaved.

That it hadn’t moved from its spot didn’t faze Watts in the slightest—the Grimm was simply taking stock of its surroundings. A behavioral study on a previous occasion had led to the discovery that it possessed 360° panoramic vision.

Truly, a fascinating creature.

“If we have the time later, I’d like to continue where we left off.” Watts ran a fingertip over the smooth texture of the dome. “I haven’t even gotten halfway through the full gamut of tests I’d like to run.”

The Seer was unresisting as he lifted one of its tentacles and inspected it. “The stabilizing agent for postmortem decomposition is still in its trial phase, but it shouldn’t be long before I have the kinks smoothed out. Of course, Her Grace was very specific about not letting you get damaged.” He released the appendage and stroked his chin. “However, nothing was said about _after_ our mission.” He smirked. “How do you feel about vivisection?”

“That depends on who we’re performing it on,” said a voice from behind.

The door lock clicked into place as Tyrian prowled across the room to join him. The duster slid from his shoulders, and he threw it on the sofa. He uncoiled his tail from around his waist and stretched. “Careful you don’t anthropomorphize your work. It makes killing them _so much_ harder.”

Watts slanted him a look out of his periphery. “Practice what you preach.”

Tyrian let out a cackle as he fell back on the furniture. “Which reminds me…” His yellow eyes tracked Watts’ movements as he made his way into the kitchenette, and set the Grimm-free bag on the counter. “I have an itch that needs scratching. Have we picked a target?”

“ _Maiden’s tits_ , Tyrian. We _just_ got here. I haven’t even unpacked.” Rather pointedly, Watts began removing his equipment from the bottom of the bag and arranging it on the counter. “You’ll need to find another outlet for the time being—preferably one that doesn’t involve manslaughter.”

Tyrian pouted. “Fun kill.”

He rolled his eyes, then considered the tool in his hand. “If you’re that bored,” Watts offered, “I could use the opportunity to inspect your prosthesis. While I doubt it’s going to fall apart the next time you use it, I’d hate for there to be any unfortunate accidents. Who knows? One of your victims might even live.”

Tyrian draped himself over the back of the sofa, his face split in a grin. “The _scandal_ ,” he said. “We can’t have that.” He swept out an arm. “By all means, doctor.”

“If only _Cinder_ showed that sort of enthusiasm whenever I have to patch her up. I suppose a little gratitude is too much to ask for as well.” Watts grabbed the necessary equipment. Tyrian scooted off the sofa and made himself comfortable on the edge of the coffee table as Watts sank onto the cushion. “But to business. How’s the neural interface holding up? Any discomfort?”

“None,” Tyrian answered. He sounded pleased.

He obligingly swept the tail into reach, allowing Watts to grab it by the base of the telson. “No delays in reaction time,” he observed, hand methodically running over the metal plating. “Release the stinger for me. I want to make sure there aren’t any issues with venom conduction.”

The tip slid from its sheathe. A moment later venom beaded at the end.

“Now return it to its default position.”

The purple glow of the reservoir dimmed as the tip retracted.

“Excellent.” Carefully, Watts turned the metasoma over in his hands, inspecting the surgical site where the prosthesis was attached to the exoskeleton. His fingertips grazed the organic portion of the tail. For a moment, he thought he heard a hitched breath. “No signs of tissue rejection or infection. This many weeks post-op, I figured that wouldn’t be the case. But with how frequently you’ve been using it, we should be monitoring for any changes in—”

The air was momentarily knocked from his lungs as Watts was slammed back against the furniture. Tyrian loomed over him, his knees boxing either side of his legs. There was a decidedly _predatory_ look in his partner’s eyes. His pulse stuttered sharply beneath his skin as Tyrian leaned forward.

“What are you doing?” At least his voice remained steady. Thank the gods for small mercies.

Teeth grazed his jawline.

“Finding another outlet,” Tyrian breathed. Any clever retorts were summarily abandoned as he closed the distance between them.

Honestly, Watts had expected this a lot sooner.

Not that he was complaining.

Calloused hands slid along the side of his face as Watts yielded to the kiss, angling his face to deepen it, opening his mouth to introduce tongue and teeth. There was an encouraging noise from somewhere above him as he reached up to pull the hair loose from his braid. For all the time he spent in the other man’s company, with how seldom Tyrian wore his hair down it always took Watts aback when he remembered just how long it was. Something that he thoroughly appreciated as he scraped his nails along his scalp before raking them through his hair.

Tyrian pulled back just far enough to let out a hiss. Watts seized his chance.

“If we’re doing this,” he said, “I’d prefer to relocate.”

Tyrian regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s wrong with out here?”

“It’s a _sofa_. Unless we _both_ want to queue up at a chiropractor, I suggest we move.”

With a show of great reluctance, Tyrian clambered off of him. “Very well.” He offered his hand, and pulled Watts to his feet. No sooner was Watts vertical did he find himself being dragged by the arm in the direction of their quarters.

The change in setting wasn’t disorienting so much as it was the way Watts _blinked_ and immediately found himself horizontal again, spine firmly pressed into the mattress. For all Tyrian’s enthusiasm in relocating them, it was maddening to watch him simply hover, straddling his waist with hands a breadth away from touching. His tail flexed in languid, undulatory motions, like a cat contemplating the bird it had trapped beneath its claws.

“Enjoying the view?” Watts drawled, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

That elicited a low, dark chuckle from Tyrian. His lips curled in the beginning of a smirk as a hand snaked along the curve of his hip, the ghostly pressure contrasting starkly against the fervor of moments ago. Watts involuntarily arched into the touch.

“Why, yes, now that you mention it.” The errant appendage toyed with his necktie. “I’d enjoy it more with these out of the way.”

“Then by all means.” Watts reached for his chest, and traced along the contour of a scar. “I’m not stopping you.”

That was apparently the right thing to say. An ominous light stole over his expression as Tyrian pulled himself forward, hands fisted in the collar of his shirt as he eliminated the space between them. The skin of his jaw brushed along Watts’ cheek as Tyrian leaned in to mouth at the shell of his ear. His breath hot against the side of his neck.

 _“Good,”_ he breathed.

Lips crushed against his, unyielding and relentless. Watts had the presence of mind to kick off his shoes while Tyrian’s mouth worked against his, alternating between hot, sucking kisses and nipping at his bottom lip. The sheer demanding quality had Watts sagging into the bed, the adrenaline buzzing through him in a way that left him feeling suffocated.

Hips experimentally ground against his, and Watts was powerless to suppress the shudder it coaxed from him. He dug fingertips into the exposed shoulders, enjoying the feel of lean, corded muscle; the topography of his arms, littered with various scars. Need pooled in his gut and burned beneath his skin—the need for more friction, for more proximity, for his mouth to be sucking bruises onto Tyrian’s neck—

A need that Watts fully intended to satisfy, as he drew up a knee and moved to wrap the leg around Tyrian’s waist.

A series of long, stridulous clicks caused them both to freeze. Very, very slowly, they turned their heads toward the door.

The Seer floated in the entryway, buoyed as if it were adrift in the currents of some invisible tide. The wan light pulsed dimly from the bell, casting a faint amber glow on the walls beside it.

Watts’ head fell back while Tyrian laughed. He swore under his breath in Atlesian.

“Bloody voyeuristic jellyfish. _Of course_ it had to have the curiosity of a damn child.” He propped himself on his elbow, about to sit up, only to be stopped by the force Tyrian exerted on his chest.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he crooned. The absurdity of the question was so left-field it nearly startled a laugh out of Watts. Nearly. He fixed his partner with a disgruntled look instead.

“To shove that roving nightmare back in its bag.” Again, he struggled to pull himself upright.

“It’s not going to hurt us,” Tyrian pointed out. A sultry purr bled into his voice. “And I’m not opposed to an audience.”

“Just because you’re an exhibitionist doesn’t mean we all are,” said Watts. “And that’s not the problem.”

“Then what is it?”

“The Grimm watching us is one thing. The possibility of _Salem_ watching us is another entirely.” Judging by the way the amusement slid from his face, Tyrian had either forgotten or conveniently overlooked that fact. “While our— _relationship_ —is hardly verboten, I’d prefer not to have our master privy to it in the form of a front row seat.”

For all that Tyrian behaved with shameless disregard, it seemed he did have a shred of propriety where Salem was concerned. This time he allowed Watts to get up. Sighing, he strode across the room and placed a hand atop its crystalline body. The Grimm didn’t protest as he carefully pushed it back a few feet—and then, deciding that he couldn’t be bothered to try and put in back in his bag, Watts shut the door in its face.

Tyrian had already removed the armwraps and vambraces when Watts turned around, and was in the middle of prising off one of his boots where he sat. He caught Watts’ eye and grinned. “Well that was unexpected,” he said.

Watts folded his arms. “Bit of a mood killer, really.”

“Is that so?” The other boot joined its brethren on the floor. Tyrian straightened into a kneel, a position that very blatantly outlined the bulge between his legs. The intensity of his stare caused a shiver of desire to speed down Watts’ back. “Perhaps I can help with that.”

Watts pretended to consider. “Perhaps you can.” He paused at the foot of the bed and quirked a brow. “Were you planning on removing the rest of your clothes?”

Tyrian’s tail flicked behind him. “I want you to take them off,” he purred.

Well. If Watts hadn’t been hard before, he certainly was now.

He sank onto the bed in front of him, hands already reaching for the strap that held the white vest in place. “Since you asked so nicely,” Watts murmured.

It was easy, _so easy_ , to meld their bodies together. To pin Tyrian beneath and drag him into a kiss that had them clawing at each other, losing themselves in the arousal, the single-minded need. Watts pulled back long enough to undo the connections of the vest-strap and slide the garment off his shoulders, all while Tyrian panted into the crook of his neck. Lips eased along the arch, trailing wetness and fire in their wake, before stopping at the juncture below his jaw. Tyrian then sucked at the pulse point, and Watts’ ability to string words together dissolved in a muted gasp. Teeth joined in, biting just shy of breaking skin.

Watts shifted, giving himself enough space to maneuver his hands without dislodging Tyrian ( _gods, he felt so good)._ He reached down, intending to do away with the band and belt securing his pants—

—only to be winded by the sudden whoosh in his chest as Tyrian rolled them. Dazedly, he blinked up at his partner.

Tyrian leered down at him. “It hardly seems fair to remove those when _you’re_ still fully dressed,” he said. His tail lashed. “Let’s fix that.”

Oh, Watts wasn’t about to argue. Not with the weight of hips pressed against his own, doing little more than pinning him, holding him in place, denying him any friction while Tyrian set to unbuttoning the maroon vest. An attempt at bucking his hips and seeking out more contact only caused Tyrian’s legs to tighten around him. Instead, he contented himself with mapping the scars across his torso, reveling in the sounds Tyrian made as his nails skated over the skin.

A little anticipation and foreplay were all well and good, but he was starting to get impatient by the time Tyrian had made it only halfway through undoing his shirt.

“Having a little trouble?” asked Watts.

Tyrian’s eyes darted up to his face before returning to the offending garment. “Imagine how much longer this would take if you wore a coat with buttons.”

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ start on that again.”

Tyrian hummed in thought. “You know,” he began, “this would go faster if I just pulled—”

“If you even think about tearing this outfit, I'll castrate you.”

“We could have it fixed.”

Watts glared up at him. “I don’t make idle threats, Tyrian.”

Tyrian let out a soft, breathy laugh as he finally undid the last button. “No,” he agreed, as he helped ease Watts out of the vest and shirt, and tossed them onto the steadily-growing pile of clothing on the floor. “You certainly don’t.”

Tyrian leaned back in and kissed him in earnest, sighing into his mouth as he explored Watts’ chest. They spent the next minute or two or three like that, Watts writhing underneath him, shuddering under the heavy touches, reciprocating as they went. Eventually, Tyrian decided some form of escalation was needed, and he broke off the kiss to mouth down his throat toward his chest.

Watts craned his neck to revel in the sight of Tyrian pressing open-mouthed kisses along the flat of his stomach. The sudden feeling of a hand palming between his legs, stroking over the steadily-hardening erection, startled a groan from him. His hips reflexively rolled into the touch.

Tyrian glanced up at him as he crawled down his body, his movements graceful and powerful and controlled. It was a deadly sort of beauty, a reminder of the killer he was, peerless and without fear. Watts would never admit to it, even at gunpoint, but there was a _thrill_ seeing that lethality on display. The way his tail curled, the metallic stinger glinting in the streetlight that filtered through the window. The way shadows carved out the angles of his face as Tyrian hooked fingers under the waistband of his pants and undergarment, and tugged them down his hips.

A choked noise escaped him as Tyrian leaned forward, warm breath ghosting over the head of his prick. Watts sucked in a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to squirm.

“Get on with it, would you?” he huffed.

“I didn’t realize we had somewhere to be.”

“Don’t be cruel.”

Tyrian rubbed a hand along the inside of his thigh, and it took every ounce of willpower Watts had not to whimper. “As you wish,” he soothed.

This time Watts couldn’t muffle the sound as Tyrian’s mouth closed around the head. _“Dust.”_

A look of wicked amusement flickered across his face as Tyrian bobbed down over his cock. The wet slide of his lips set the nerves alight like signal flares, and when he swallowed Watts nearly sobbed. He set a brutal pace, enveloping his length in liquid heat, tonguing at the slit on the upstrokes. Watts’ hands fisted in Tyrian’s hair as his eyes fluttered shut, breathing hard through his teeth like his life depended on it.

When Tyrian backed off just enough to suck and swirl at the head, Watts couldn’t help but jerk his hips to chase after the touch—

—and almost as soon as he did, remorseless hands slammed down on his hips and forced him to lie still. Fingers dug into the skin with bruising force, giving no quarter. Restraining him.

Watts let out a strangled noise as Tyrian’s mouth stretched around him, and he opened his eyes to drink in the obscene sight; the steady, rhythmic pace he’d built, his cock disappearing in that wet heat as he bobbed and sucked; locks of hair cascading past his face with each movement. The wild, elated look he wore while swallowing as deeply as he could, eyes heavy-lidded with intent.

Until Tyrian lifted his head and took note of his audience. Never once breaking eye contact, he drew back until his lips enclosed only the head. Then he lapped at the slit and _growled_ low in the back of his throat.

Watts nearly came then and there.

With a slick _pop_ Tyrian withdrew to sit back on the balls of his feet. “I don’t suppose you could help me with something?” he asked.

At least Watts had the wherewithal to push past the haze and sit up. His gaze drifted toward the hard outline straining against his pants, the subtle rocking motion of Tyrian’s hips as he leaned forward.

He didn’t require any prompting, but if the invitation (and the desire behind it) _didn’t_ send a rush of heat to coil in the pit of his stomach. Shaking hands worked at the waistband and belt. Tyrian watched, rapt, as he undid the wrap that supported the tail, before casting it to the floor. The belt followed suit, and before long Tyrian was shucking off his pants and briefs.

The image Tyrian created was exotic: crouched less than a foot away, naked and hard and lips parted, his tail sweeping across the sheets. Just the soft rustle of the fabric alone was enough to make him throb.

Watts licked his lips.

They didn’t waste any time: Tyrian easing into his lap and straddling his hips, while Watts reclined his back against the headboard for support. He reached down, palm gliding over his navel, before wrapping around the girth of his partner’s cock. Tyrian’s voice hitched on a moan as Watts dragged his hand over the length and gave it a light squeeze.

 _“Yes.”_ Tyrian tipped back his head and hissed. “Just like that.”

His hips canted forward in time with the strokes. Watts smirked at the glide of soft skin against his palm, the sweat glistening in the curls of brown hair nestled between his legs, the sudden keen as he thumbed over the slit.

Tyrian all but devoured him in the ensuing kiss. His partner’s fingers bumped blindly into his hand as he moved into the shared space and joined him. Seconds later Watts’ hips spasmed forward as Tyrian wrapped his hand around him.

 _“Tyrian,”_ he gasped against his lips.

Tyrian recaptured his mouth, with evidently little thought for breathing by the way he sucked the air from his lungs. The friction was deliriously good, hips grinding together as Watts stroked and was stroked. He pulled back, long enough to catch his breath, and Tyrian dove for the spot where he’d bitten him. The sharp nip caused him to inadvertently squeeze on the length bobbing in his grasp.

The hand not preoccupied with stroking frantically scrabbled along the back of Watts’ shoulder. Tyrian squeezed his eyes shut, a steady stream of unintelligible noise pouring from his slack mouth as he thrust against his hand. Watts caught on quickly enough and redoubled his efforts, working his wrist in faster, firmer pulls, watching the way Tyrian bowed his spine—

_“Arthur!”_

The sound of his name was accompanied by a rush of heat across his knuckles. Watts worked him through the climax while snapping his pelvis forward, chasing after the orgasm that was quickly building on the heel of Tyrian’s. Through gritted teeth he groaned, muscles straining with exertion, arching into whatever contact he could get from the hand still moving over him.

Fingertips kneaded at the tip, and a hot breath buffeted his ear.

“Come for me,” he breathed.

White-hot pleasure radiated outward from the pit of his abdomen. The hand on Watts worked him through it, thumb swirling through the fluid and massaging along the slit, until every last shudder had been wrung from his body.

Watts collapsed in a boneless heap with Tyrian sprawled atop him. His shoulders shook with waning sensation, head tipped back against the pillow and eyes closed. For several moments neither spoke.

Tyrian propped his chin on his sternum. “That was nice,” he purred.

Watts blearily cracked open an eye. “Got that out of your system?” he asked wryly.

“Oh, I think so.”

A contented sigh eased past his partner’s lips as Watts reached up to comb through his hair. “It’s getting late.” Actually, he’d lost track of the time a while ago. Didn’t mean Tyrian had to know that. “We should get some sleep.” He considered the Faunus curled atop him, shoulders rising and falling as his breathing steadied.

Watts cleared his throat. “Stay with me?”

Tyrian glanced up and fixed him with a sly, knowing look.

“You only had to ask,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> This is quickly becoming a bad habit where I slip more headcanons and worldbuilding/lore into my fics, so here's a quick rundown on some of the things that might've caused you to stop and squint your eyes.
> 
>  **Shionavirus** – A flu-like viral infection commonly found across Anima and Solitas. It’s named after Shion village, where it was first discovered after a major outbreak decimated the local population.
> 
>  **Archotherology** – (Gr. _archo-_ , ruler, + _-thero-_ , beast, + _-logy_ , a branch of knowledge regarding a specific subject) The study of Grimm.
> 
>  **Maiden's tits** – An old idiom that dates back to the time when the Maidens' powers first came into existence. The equivalent idiom would be something like Merlin's beard or Durin's tongs.


End file.
